one final thought on hypochondria

Not to harp on my whole recent bout with hypochondria, but technology has proven to be an incredible source of additional worry. And I'm not just talking about the random satellite which could, at any given minute, come hurtling down from the upper layers of the atmosphere and land squarely atop my head.

You've got your cell phones that may cause brain damage...which has now started creating an itchy and warming sensation on the 'phone' side of my head every time I call someone. And those wonderful microwaves...which have lately been causing me to instinctively reach down to cup my crotch each time I pass one, for fear that I'll end up with fried and dried out balls in the very near future if I don't.

Some day when procreation becomes the aim of the whole sex thing, I'd like to think that my boys will be able to get the job done. But I can't help but think that after so many microwave walk-bys, my sperm will closely resemble a huge three stooges convention taking place in some woman's uterus...complete with all the eye-pokes, face slapping, and n'yuk n'yuks.

Which is actually quite a shame because I find those Hot Pockets to be very tasty, and now because of my new microwave illness fears, I might have to give them up. I've heard women complain about not getting paid as much as men, and the whole patriarchal society thing, but damn it, when us guys have to give up Hot Pockets, well, I think we all know which gender is getting the raw end of the deal.